


Sick Day

by citizenjess (givehimonemore)



Category: Mighty Max
Genre: Gen, Mentors, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:04:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givehimonemore/pseuds/citizenjess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Virgil and Norman watch over the Mighty One when he's sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Day

Max's mom preparing to leave for a weekend-long excursion to LA for some conference or another isn't so unusual, perhaps; in the past, she's simply left dinner in the 'fridge or enough money to keep her precocious and ever-hungry eleven-year-old son supplied with pizza, with the promise that she's only a phone call away. On some occasions, this or that neighbor has been tagged to keep an eye on the house and the rambunctious pre-teen inside of it, though they remained mostly out of sight and out of mind, which suited the Mighty One well enough. Spending the weekend unabashedly watching movies or hanging out at the arcade with Felix was just how he liked it.

So when he wakes up coughing and watery-eyed the morning that his mom is set to leave, it is an unexpected crimp in both of their plans, to say the least. "I bet half your school came down with the flu over Thanksgiving break," his mom sighs, perched on the edge of her son's bed. Max, prone on his side, sniffles miserably as his mom wipes a hand across his sweaty forehead. On the nightstand adjacent sits the Cosmic Cap, unassuming, yet brimming with power. "I guess I can get my presentation fee refunded," she posits, and Max shakes his head feebly.

"No, Mom." The small movement makes him dizzy, however, and he sinks back into his pillow. "You've been looking forward to this for months," he added a moment later, his voice muffled and scratchy.

His mom smiles and chucks him on the chin affectionately. "I have. But you're far more important, kiddo." Max wants to protest, but finds himself suddenly weary with the effort of trying to speak. The last thing he feels before falling into a series of uncomfortable naps is his mother's lips pressed briefly against his burning cheek.

*

When he wakes up again eventually, his mouth is dry and his head is pounding. Down the hall, he can faintly make out his mother's voice, assuming, since he can't hear anyone responding to her, that she's on the phone. Straining to hear, he makes out strands of sentences: "Well yes, it's a pretty important conference ... I'm presenting, yes, but ... I just don't want to leave him ... would you really be willing to ... I could pay you ... how soon ... are you sure ..."

Drained again, he manages to take a sip from the lukewarm glass of water sitting next to the Cap before sinking back into oblivion.

*

When he opens his eyes again, he's fairly certain he must still somehow be dreaming as the squat form of Virgil fuzzily takes shape. "Can't save the world today, I'm sick," he rasps grumpily at dream-Virgil, who, he is chagrined to note, seems to chuckle at this.

The feathered hand smoothing over his forehead is yet comforting, however. "Of course not, Mighty One," his mentor intones. He fiddles with the oral thermometer adding to the paraphernalia on Max's nightstand, and Max obediently places it under his tongue. When it beeps, Virgil studies the read-out and tsks. "Norman and I will be staying here to look after you for the next two days," he proposes. He studies Max's pale, somewhat glazed expression for a moment and then adds, "Do you understand?"

"Hmmm, yeah," Max murmurs, and drifts off again, feeling safer, somehow.

*

"So the emergency numbers are on the side of the refrigerator, and I picked up plenty of soup and crackers and clear soda and cough medicine ..." The mother of the Mighty One frowns and turns in a semi-circle in the center of the kitchen again. At the table in the nearby dining room sits Norman, no doubt testing the infrastructure of the antique furniture with his considerable bulk.

"Well, I guess that's it," she concludes, looking almost reluctantly at Virgil. "Look, I appreciate this a lot, you guys, but you really don't have to do this. Max sick is a totally different ball game." Nervously, she fiddles with her purse. "At least let me give you some money ..."

"No." Virgil's voice is gentle, yet firm, and he waits patiently for the boy's mother to stop rummaging and face him anew before continuing. "Please, go and enjoy yourself. We are perfectly capable and willing to stay here with the Mighty One."

Norman grins a little. "Yeah, we'll hold down the fort here, no worries."

Max's mom sighs. "I know he's in good hands, of course." She bites her lip and then seems to find the sudden resolve to leave. "Okay. You're sure you don't need-"

"No." Virgil's tone is laced with finality, this time, and it seems to do the trick.

"Okay, well ... see you Sunday night." Tilting her head, she calls upstairs, "'Bye, honey! Feel better! Important phone numbers are on the 'fridge, and ..." She stops talking when she catches Virgil's exasperated gaze. "I'm going," she finishes. Virgil sees her to the door and waits until the sounds of her sports utility vehicle can no longer be heard before locking the deadbolt.

"I thought she'd never leave," Norman intones from the other room.

Virgil sighs wearily. "No question of where the Mighty One gets his stubbornness from," he groans, and Norman smirks.

*

This time when he wakes up, there's a specific smell attached to it; not unpleasant, but not the slightly dank air of his bedroom, either. He takes a chance and pops open one eye and then the other. "Normy?" he queries.

"Yo." The Viking warrior is carrying a tray containing a bowl of what Max can now identify as soup broth, as well as a glass of something clear and fizzy. "Don't worry; Virgil made the soup," Norman clarifies, and Max smiles weakly.

Helping the boy into a sitting position, Norman waits until Max appears to be comfortably propped against his headboard before setting the folding tray across his lap. Max watches in mostly silent gratitude as his Guardian grabs up his desk chair, on which he hunkers down next to his charge. "Thanks," Max manages, and then spoons a mouthful of the light-colored broth into his mouth. His stomach rumbles, and he cautiously begins to eat.

"Slowly, Mighty One," Norman admonishes. Max nods. They lapse into companionable quiet, save for Max's occasional slurping. When the bowl is empty, Norman takes the tray again.

More awake now than he's been in a while, Max finds himself suddenly desperate for company, and for Norman to stick around for a bit. "Wanna play a game with me?" he asks, and Norman raises an eyebrow.

"A game?"

"Cards or something. I can teach you Go Fish."

"'Kay." They make it through two-and-a-half games before Max seems winded. "You should rest some more," Norman suggests, and Max nods, his lack of protest saying everything. Still, when the large man gets up to leave, the desk chair groaning in relief, the boy lets out a small moue. "Wanna stay and watch TV?" he prompts. "We can probably still catch some Saturday 'toons."

"Mmm, I don't know." Norman looks around the room cautiously. "Virgil doesn't want you to watch too much TV." Then he takes in what Max hopes is a pitiable expression and caves. "Maybe we just won't tell him," the Viking suggests, and Max gives him a thumbs up.

*

He somehow awakens from the throes of flu-ridden sleep yet again, this time still propped against several thick pillows. Norman's no longer there, though the remains of their card game sit atop Max's increasingly cluttered nightstand. Beside the bed now stands Virgil, holding a small, plastic cup of thick, purple-ish liquid. The TV, Max notices, is now off.

He tilts the medicine down his throat as quickly as he can, swallowing hard. Then, almost immediately, he feels the contents of his stomach begin to swirl. "I need to ... oh," he gags, and is grateful when Virgil proffers the small garbage can from his personal bathroom. Still, there is something innately humiliating about his mentor seeing him like this. "Please ... go ..." he manages, and hears the clacking of Virgil's toenails against the floor and his bedroom door close softly before he begins to retch. The effort leaves him shaking and glassy-eyed after several minutes, but before he can concoct a plan for getting rid of the evidence, Virgil and Norman are there again, wiping his face and whisking the garbage can away. Virgil hands him a fresh glass of water, and watches the boy take two small, slow sips.

"Thank you," he mumbles, still embarrassed; and yet, there is no judgment in Virgil's eyes. He lets the Lemurian fowl take his temperature again, and settles a bit dejectedly back against the pillows. "So much for food," he says sarcastically.

Virgil smiles. "We'll try again a bit later," he suggests. It's here, with Norman still absent from the room for the time being, that Max realizes how different his two newest friends are. Not talking around Norman is the default mode; they don't have to say anything, and the silence between them will be perfectly pleasant. It's different with Virgil, however; his mentor is always giving him directions, admonishments, or even just information about this or that location or artifact. Because of this, Max often finds himself making plans aloud to defeat their latest foe, or even simply arguing with Virgil over some archaic pearl of wisdom that doesn't quite ring true to him. In addition, Max realizes, this is the first time that he's had Virgil's attention for a purpose other than saving the world for more than a few minutes between portals. Thus, the opportunity to ask his mentor more lackadaisical questions besides, "So why does this guy want to kill me?", to get to know him better, seems to have arisen. Clumsily, the Capbearer wracks his brain for a suitable missive: 'Do you have a last name?' 'Where do you guys go after we save the day?' 'Am I doing a good job?'

Eventually, he settles for: "So um, my mom's probably happy that you guys could do this, and I am too. So yeah."

His mentor's gaze is fond. "As are we, Mighty One."

*

This time, he makes it through nearly six games of Go Fish, Virgil holding his own remarkably well despite claiming to have never played. Even teaming up against him with Norman isn't enough to knock the ancient fowl off his perch, so to speak.

As the Mighty One drifts off again, Virgil smoothes an errant strand of hair from his forehead and watches him fall asleep.

*

His alarm clock reads 7:26 AM in bold, red letters. With renewed vigor and a sudden need to take a shower, the Mighty One hoists himself out of bed and, though still shaky, manages to propel himself into the bathroom. It feels strange to walk around again after lying prone for so many hours in a row; his stomach, too, has the hollowed out feeling that accompanies it being unceremoniously emptied the day before. In spite of these things, he manages to brush his teeth, shower, and redress himself in a clean pair of pajamas. As an afterthought, he stuffs the Cap onto his damp hair.

He makes his way a bit gingerly down the staircase leading to the main floor of the house, his legs still protesting the sudden onslaught of movement. "Look who's awake," Norman notes aloud. Max recognizes a couple of blankets from the spare linen closet lying crumpled on the sofa.

Virgil enters his line of vision from the kitchen, carrying a bowl of oatmeal. "Feeling better this morning, I see," he says, and Max nods. Seated at the table proper, the boy listens to his mentor's admonishments to eat slowly and not overdo things, and trades barbs with Norman over how they plan to "cream" Virgil later together in an "epic" Go Fish rematch. Atop his head, the Cap sits, not overly heavy, even in his limited state, but weighty nonetheless with the possibilities of the day that lays before him.


End file.
